


The Secret of Lazarus

by Xekstrin



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: ????Moira, Alpha!Angela, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, F/F, Like real slow, Rating May Change, SHOCKINGLY NOT SMUT, Slow Burn, Trans Female Character, not yet anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-08 18:18:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14111238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xekstrin/pseuds/Xekstrin
Summary: Moira and Angela have starkly different views on their duties as doctors and as members of Overwatch.In between developing new technology, grappling with the inevitability of death, gender dysphoria, and dancing in their socks, the two of them cautiously circle each other, desperately wanting and endlessly anxious.





	The Secret of Lazarus

 

It was uncouth, at best, to ponder on your lab partner's secondary gender. There were a million reasons one would want that to remain secret, or at least private. After all, more than one patient had turned away Angela's care upon the realization that it was an Alpha touching them, seeing them vulnerable, possibly influencing them. Angela wearily accepted it, understanding that people had their reasons to be mistrustful, and tried her best to do her job regardless.

Coming to Overwatch had been something of a relief. She could count the number of Omega here on one hand, and while it brought a twinge of guilt, she was grateful she no longer had to walk on eggshells for some of her patients.

Right now though, she almost wished the screaming man on her table was an Omega. She hated using her influence over them, but sometimes all it would take was a hiss of command and they would go limp underneath her on the table, at least long enough for her to treat their wounds.

They were running low on supplies after three weeks under siege from Null Sector. She was low on plasma, low on blood, low on antibiotics, low on even a sterile scrap of fabric to staunch the bleeding with.

"O'Deorain!" she said between grit teeth, struggling to hold the patient down while the only other free doctor on base was god-knows-where. "If we have any morphine at all, now would be—"

Moira appeared in front of her with a damp rag. One hand pressed on the injured man's chest while the other smothered his face, holding him down dispassionately. It all happened so fast Angela couldn't even respond, couldn't think of anything except how Moira seemed like a serpent just then, coiled around him to reduce some of the flailing.

When she looked up, it was with a cheeky grin. "Quicker to whip up some chloroform from a bucket of bleach and three Hail Marys than anything else. Sorry, Ziegler."

"That's not—!"

Not? Not what? Not safe? Not ethical? Whatever she could come up with seemed paltry in the wake of the reality of their situation. She didn't even know where to start. 

"You and I are going to have a stern talk when we get out of this mess," is what Angela settled on.

"If we live that long, I'd be more than happy to."

Unlike what thriller flicks promised, the unregulated administration of the gas left their patient sluggish and docile, but not completely unconscious. He spoke, or tried to speak, and Moira shushed him.

"There, there," she said, perched on the edge of the table to hold him in her arms while Angela reset bone and sealed flesh. It looked more like a judo hold than any kind of warm embrace, one hand over his throat with the promise of retaliation if he didn't behave. "Chin up, soldier. It's all going to be over soon."

Still, it struck Angela as almost uncharacteristically gentle, at odds with the violence of her initial actions. Moira took control of the situation effortlessly, keeping the Beta in their hands still until they could find a better solution.

 _She must be an Alpha,_ Angela thought, unbidden. It was the first time she bothered speculating as much. It felt like stereotyping, but with the blockers Moira wore so religiously, there was really no other clue.

Then they had work to do, and it didn't cross her mind for another solid year.

 

* * *

 

 

She didn't know when, exactly, she started pursuing Moira O'Deorain. But she knew that she would pursue her. That she wouldn't be satisfied by anything other than a full-scale attempt. 

Somewhere along the way, Angela looked at her partner staring down at their last after-action report with her brow creased in concentration. With her slicked-back hair mussed up and falling in damp strands down her face, eyes narrow with thought. 

And she _wanted_ , and she _decided_.

Call it the Alpha in her.

It would have been easy if Moira were the type to ever give straight answers. Then again, Angela rarely set her sights on anything that wasn't difficult to achieve. If Moira recoiled from her touch, or looked at her with hatred or disgust, that would be one thing. Angela would have backed down.

But the doctor was unreadable, saying everything with a flat smile that never reached her mismatched eyes.

They flirted, occasionally. Enough to know that Moira hadn't had a partner since joining Overwatch five years previously, that she was pansexual but men made her wish she wasn't, that she was more interested in her work than anything else.

"What miserable weather," Angela mused out loud. She pressed a palm to the ceiling-length windows of their newest station, wishing she could appreciate the view. But all she could think of after that first attack was what a hazard such a window posed. A sniper could easily—

But they weren't in a war zone anymore. They were in Germany, where there hadn't been any fighting in years. Not since Eichenwald fell. 

Angela itched to be on the front lines again, where she felt more immediately useful. There was no satisfaction to be had in endless research, even if Morrison insisted she and O'Deorain work together on the next iteration of the Valkyrie suit. Their skills combined should make it a cinch.

Should.

Outside, grey clouds stretched out until the horizon. A fine mist settled over everything, oppressive and overwhelming. Crossing her arms tightly, Angela glanced up to see a vague, dark reflection in the glass. Knowing Moira was close by brought her a sense of peace, just as seeing the familiar shock of red hair always brought a smile to her lips.

They'd been through a lot together, and O'Deorain never lost her composure. She was always cool, patient, steely-eyed. It was a rare quality they had in common; it's what drew Angela to her despite the way they often butted heads. Under it all was a deep, deep respect.

She caught eyes burning into her, warped in an unsteady reflection. Icy blue and burning red.

When she turned around, Moira was pointedly facing away from her, neck deep in her reports again.

"Want to go for a drink?" Angela offered, cracking her wrists with a sigh.

"Hmm?"

Moira looked up at her with puzzlement.

"It's almost seven," Angela said. "I'm tired. I'm getting nowhere with this staff. If I hit another dead end I'm going to throw this suit out the window."

She jerked a thumb behind her.

"Come with me for a drink."

Moira considered it, for sure, staring at Angela with a dispassionate gaze. She could always tell when Moira was going over her options, weighing the pros and cons.

"I'm close to finishing this," she said at last. "Perhaps some other night, Dr. Ziegler."

She hesitated a split second, wondering if she should press the issue. Angela regretted not making it clearer that she wasn't just looking to blow off steam, she wanted to spend more time with Moira specifically outside a work environment.

But she didn't like to linger. She liked having a plan and following through. So she left, hands deep in her pockets as she trotted out of the base and towards the bus stop that would take her to town.

Halfway there, she realized she'd forgotten her communicator. Absolutely unforgivable under most circumstances, but being so far from danger must have made her lax. What if there was an emergency? What if she was needed?

Torn between anger and frustration, she turned back to the labs and hoped nothing had exploded in the last forty minutes.

Everything was locked up and shut down when she arrived, only a single sleepy security guard at the front desks.

The hallways were all empty, every other office dark or barely lit. Her shadow stretched out like a witch's hand, pointed towards the only office still with signs of life within. As Angela grew closer she heard an odd noise, a rhythmic shuffle and rattle of wood and metal.

"O'Deorain?" she called ahead, just to be sure. She didn't know why her stomach was coiling with anxiety, but she'd long learned not to ignore the instinct.

Slowing down, she walked silently up to the door to find out who was in there, and if it was Moira, why she wasn't responding.

Of all the things she expected, what actually awaited Angela struck her speechless.

It was Moira O'Deorain with her tie undone and her shoes tossed into a corner, dancing furiously to the song currently blaring in her earphones. Covering her smile with one hand, Angela watched as Moira shimmied around the lab, shuffling on her argyle socks to slide around and spin, occasionally humming or muttering along with whatever she was listening to.

[She was cleaning up the lab... presumably. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UG3VcCAlUgE) Every so often Moira took the wooden broom into her hands for a passionate guitar solo, but it didn't look like she'd used it for its intended purpose once yet.

"You've got the butterflies all tied up," Moira crooned into the handle, her hips rolling in waves. "Don't make me chase you, even doves have pride—" 

She swung around just then to lock eyes with Angela, freezing up like an animal caught in a net.

Angela waved once, fingers curling teasingly.

Much to her amusement, Moira suddenly became all knees and elbows, tripping over her words and her own two feet. "—Who the— how— _Fuck me!_ Angela, how long have you been there?"

She ripped her earphones off too roughly. The cord snapped free from her tablet, blaring music loudly in the lab until Moira could turn it off with a few frantic taps. "Y'can't sneak up on a girl like that!"

"Of course," Angela agreed, "I wouldn't want to interrupt you in the middle of a great scientific breakthrough."

Fascinated, Angela watched as Moira visibly forced herself to stop fidgeting, regaining her composure. Standing up tall and imperious, she glared down at Angela. "I was taking a break."

The words and the pose carried less weight when Moira still had a flush across her nose and cheeks. Despite herself, Angela let out a choked laugh, turning away so she didn't have to look at Moira any longer.

Sucking in a deep breath, Angela took a moment to finally respond. "Then I'll let you get back to it." She walked past Moira, grabbing her communicator from where she'd forgotten it in one of the shelves. "You know how to reach me if you need me."

Moira huffed in response.

When she left the room, Angela doubled back just enough to peek at Moira from the door frame. "You know, you should play this music more often when we're working."

The expression on Moira's face could only be described as a _pout_ , managing to be sulky and deadpan at the same time.

Rarer than the blush, though, was the genuine smile that broke out over her face. It was gone in a flash, making Angela wonder if she'd imagined it.

"Maybe," Moira spoke brusquely, her shoulders stiff and square as she plugged her headphones back in. If she resumed dancing, Angela couldn't know. She left down the stairs with a spring in her step, humming tunelessly with a new song stuck in her head.

 

* * *

 

Days after Ana Amari died, she returned to work. Staying home drove her mad; being around others with their simpering words made her feel like an Alpha for the first time in her life, snarling orders to be left alone.

It worked, of course, it worked on everyone except Moira. They shared a lab space, after all. And she'd never seen that woman bow her head to anyone.

She knew how she must come across, alien to anyone who knew her. Furiously scrapping together metal and plans borrowed from Lindholm, her adoptive father watching in concern as Angela buried herself in experiments. She wanted to work until her joints ground against each other; she wanted to burn out like a pillar of fire, screaming until nothing was left but ash.

More and more often she caught Moira sneaking glances at her. She didn't need to wonder what it was; she'd purposefully stopped taking her scent blockers, finally dipping into a power she often considered obscene or depraved. 

But Angela would do anything at that point as long as it meant people listened to her. She'd do anything as long as nothing got in the way of her research, research all built too late to save anything she gave a damn about.

They were no stranger to long silences; it was another blessing they shared in common, not needing to fill space with idle chatter.

So when Angela dropped the test tube filled with blood and cloned human tissue, fumbled for it, let it shatter into a dozen pieces, the noise was piercingly loud.

_"Scheisse!"_

She flinched, flicking her hand away with anger and disgust. Red droplets scattered. Judging by the pain, not all the blood was from her test subject. Moira was at her side immediately with gloves strapped on, gingerly scooping the shards into the biohazard waste bin along with all their needles.

By the time Angela had pried the last bit of glass from her own fingers, Moira had smoothly and efficiently cleaned up her lab area. Anyone who didn't know better might assume nothing had happened at all.

Moira peeled her gloves free with a snap and tossed those too, then turned her eyes on Angela.

Angela stared up at her, still bleeding, shaking so hard that she couldn't administer any biotic gel to the cuts. 

Their silence took on a wholly different cant as Moira stepped forward. She took Angela's hands in hers, slathering on the gel with those long, long fingers.

"What do you need?" she asked, so gentle that it burned.

Angela swallowed, despite a dry mouth, a tight throat.

"H-help me," she whispered, eyes welling up.

The bandages wrapped tightly around her fingers. Moira made sure all the blood cleaned away before she took Angela into her arms and held her. Despite the burning in her eyes, she couldn’t cry. She felt drained and dried up, like a much-abused well. Instead she gasped and shuddered, gulping air desperately as Moira murmured soothing words to her.

Moira was so big; Angela closed her eyes and tilted her head up, instinctively seeking out the comforting scent of another Alpha. All her life she'd been taken care of by other Alphas; she almost exclusively took other Alphas to bed. Paramilitary organizations like Overwatch drew them like flies to honey, and Angela never second-guessed herself when they snapped to attention and followed her orders.

But she smelled nothing.

No, not just nothing.

A purposeful absence of scent.

Something about that was like a cold bucket of water. She gathered herself back up, taking a deep breath and pushing Moira away. 

They lingered close to one another, though, her fingers brushing up against Moira's chest and two comforting hands on the small of her back.

"You make me calm," she said, surprising herself with the truth of it. Her voice sounded distant to her own ears. "Why do you make me calm?"

"My impeccable bedside manner."

Angela twitched, unsure if that was a joke. The delivery was so dry; she cautiously looked up at Moira with a frown.

"The pain will fade," Moira continued on, letting go of Angela only to keep one palm on her face. That skin contact was more than they had ever touched in years. It felt delicious. And the _wrongness_ of enjoying that touch in the midst of her misery made her crave it even more. "You're young, Angela... but you're strong."

Once again she was hit with the intensity of her grief. Not only had she lost one of her best friends, her mentor, but the loss had been a rude awakening to what she avoided all these years: The inevitability of death.

Voraciously hungry, nipping at her heels constantly, wrapping around her throat whenever she had a moment's peace, and so she worked to the bone because if she was ever alone with her own thoughts— if she was ever alone with the only truth she would ever know—

Angela started shaking again. “I c-can’t—”

Moira shushed her and held her tighter like she held that soldier, something comforting about the sharpness of her joints and her bony, skinny body.

They sat together under one of the tables, with Angela's back to Moira's chest.

"I don't know how much help this will be. I know you're not religious." Moira spoke low. "But when my parents died, the pastor spoke about... Lazarus."

Angela listened, still feeling disconnected from this all.

"The story focuses on the miracle. But not once— never did we learn what Lazarus had to say on the matter." 

Angela realized her hands were coiled into tight fists. Her nails bit into her own palm; unexpected rage flared up in her. 

Moira continued on. "What would it be like to know pain again after being unshackled? To wake and smell the rot of your own body?"

She shook her head.

"There's mercy in death, Angela," Moira said, arms wrapping tighter around her. She took both of Angela's hands in hers, gently linking fingers together so that she couldn't maintain a fist anymore. Pressed as they were, with the conversation they were having, Angela couldn't help but compare it to the way Moira's hands would often clasp in prayer. 

Angela furiously stared at the linoleum, eyes burning with unshed tears. And the world spun, split between here and the funeral, between Ana's funeral and her parents'. And Fareeha's broken voice when there was nothing left to do but accept this ( _Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un_ ) and the sterile, non denominational ceremony for a couple who were decidedly agnostic, if not outright atheist. Angela had been a child; no one listened to her when she said they'd wanted to be burned.

And the priest sounded deep and familiar, Omega-soft and nurturing, and yet also like Moira with her scent all wrong and masked, blank and hard.

"Blessed are the dead—"

 _No,_ she thought. 

A voice inside her said it again.

_No._

That voice inside her was so quiet that she wondered how long it had been talking. It made her wonder how long she’d been ignoring it. It filled her with a terrifying amount of rage, yet it was the only thing louder than that awful prayer.

"That they may rest from their labors."

_No._

_No._

_No._

* * *

 

They were comfortable where they were. They enjoyed each other's company. More than that, trust had sprung up between the two. Moira sometimes came to work without her blockers, letting her sweet scent linger in the lab they shared. She kept some in her desk, though, to apply when she was feeling dysphoric.

They only brought it up once, during an argument.

Angela had confronted her over the DNR in her contract. Angela wasn't even supposed to have access to that, of course. Moira didn't press, though Angela secretly hoped she would. 

Moira had never given much thought to the rules, and it wouldn't be like her to suddenly care now that similar habits weren't working in her favor.

Moira sat back in her chair and slowly opened her desk. She applied the thick paste over her scent glands, cutting off everything from Angela's nose.

"These are hard to get ahold of in Ireland," she said idly, replacing the cap and putting it away. "Used to be illegal. Like abortion."

Moira steepled her fingers, leaning forward and fixing Angela with that intense stare. They never spoke of the budding attraction between them, but Angela had the distinct feeling that Moira herself wasn't even aware of it.

So now, more than before, Angela learned exactly what it meant to have Moira O'Deorain's complete and total attention.

"What do you think of the idea that I'm an affront to nature, Ziegler?" she asked. "Do you think I should stay barefoot and pregnant, working hard to swell our depleted population? Is that how an Omega should take part in this war against humanity?"

Angela faltered. What did that have to do with what they were talking about? What did that have to do with the powerlessness she felt when she looked at O'Deorain, her thin lips slightly parted, as though it were suddenly difficult to breathe through her nostrils?

A few shallow breaths later gave her the answer; Angela herself was clouding up the room in her fit of anger, scent wrapping around Moira indelibly.

"An answer would be welcome," Moira said lightly. "Use your words, doctor."

She peeled away like paint under that gaze. 

"Of course I don't... of course that's not what I believe about you." She thought briefly of her own transition. "But gender is gender, and it rarely works the way we think it ought to. You denying me the right to resuscitate—"

"So you agree I should have a choice how I live my life?"

Her temper flared, deeply uncomfortable with this line of discussion. "Of course I do!"

"So then let me choose my death," Moira finished, under her breath, eyes downcast. "If I die, let me rest."

Angela moved to speak again, to try and convince her otherwise, to remind Moira of the important work they still had yet to finish.

_I want you alive!_

Then burning blue and red swiveled up again, pinning her in place. "I've no desire to learn the secret of Lazarus, Dr. Ziegler."

Moira was a constant contradiction; whenever Angela felt she had a hold on her, she would twist in some other way. Helpless and unable to hold on, Angela merely followed, wondering if she was the only Alpha in existence to be so willingly held captive outside the hierarchy that always simmered just under their skin.

 

* * *

 

The rabbit had heterochromia. Pure white fur dappled with black spots, and a red eye typical of the albino specimens they kept in the lab. But one eye shone electric blue, leaving Moira smirking and standing taller than usual, always excited to give Angela a lecture on genetic expression. It was her field of expertise, after all, even if they were both mostly engineers by trade and— when the situation called for it— emergency medics.

Overwatch had a way of drawing out the best in humanity, and rarely did any recruit ever have just one skill under their belt. It was what made them all so formidable; it was why they were the force of justice keeping the world together.

"Moira..." Angela started uncertainly.

She stood in Moira's lab. Recent developments had shifted them starkly away from one another, as Reyes had Moira working for Blackwatch while Angela continued her precious research.

They were in North America, near the southern border between the United States and Mexico. The incident with Null Sector in King's Row left them licking too many wounds; Valkyrie 2.0 was underway.

They still had not touched.

Angela perfected a machine that anyone could utilize in the field, to seal wounds and administer fluids and, if necessary, jolt a stilled heart back into action. Evidently it was going to win some kind of award. 

Morrison insisted she show up to the conference where they would be honoring her. If he hoped it would salvage Overwatch's reputation somewhat; personally she thought it was a bandaid for something that clearly needed stitches. Angela was more preoccupied with how she could ensure it also held enough blood for an emergency transfusion, and how to ensure that blood would last in the field.

She thought about making an ultimatum, that she would only go if O'Deorain were allowed to go with her. They never got to see each other anymore, and her credentials allowed only partial access into Blackwatch facilities. 

Before, she could turn and just see Moira's lanky frame, tap her on the shoulder when she needed her. Now...

"This one is Cocoa," Moira announced, holding aloft a large brown bunny. "The brilliant white one is Lucifer."

"We're not naming her that. Why do you have rabbits?"

Moira hummed, shaking her head. "What's the matter, Angela? Are you saying you don't want me to experiment on Lucifer the fallen? The temptor? The morningstar?"

Animal testing hadn't entirely been phased out of popular use, but it still didn't bode well that Moira needed it now that she belonged to Blackwatch. 

Deep in her heart she knew Moira wouldn't be cruel in her methods if such research was necessary for her experiments. They all had ethical standards they held themselves to, and even if Moira didn't always follow the rules she wasn't a cruel person, she _couldn't_ be—

"Why do you need rabbits?" she asked again, uneasy still.

"I don't." Moira stroked Cocoa's back before idly dropping a kiss on top of her head. "I told Gabriel I did because I get bored looking at nothing but white walls all day, and I'm lonely without—”

Moira stumbled over what she was trying to say.

After biting her lip once, eyes widening in a panic, she settled on: "I desire the company of other living creatures."

When they locked eyes again Moira sounded like her usual mix of droll, yet bored. "Name the other one. Consider it yours."

The white rabbit wasn't as amenable to being touched as Cocoa. She shied away from them both, nose flaring with fear. 

Morningstar. Star. Estella. Esther? 

"I think she looks like an Esther," Angela said.

"Well..." Moira sounded doubtful. "It is your rabbit, I suppose."

She kept Cocoa in her arms a while longer, stroking her long ears. Standing there, Angela found she was transfixed by the sight. Moira was gentle in uncanny ways, and they never failed to catch Angela off guard.

"She's not as fidgety as I feared she would be," Moira said, after a while.

"She probably just likes being held by a beautiful woman," Angela said. "God knows I wish that were me."

Moira smiled at that, one of her rare genuine smiles. Then she did a double take, peering at Angela suspiciously. "Ziegler! Are you flirting with your coworker?"

"I have been for the past few years, but thanks for noticing."

She meant it as a harmless quip, but Moira continued analyzing her like a cache of new data, eyes narrowed in focus. 

Then, she slowly started getting red.

"I haven't embarrassed you, have I Dr. O'Deorain?"

"That depends," Moira shot back. "Are you truly jealous of a rabbit?"

"Who knows," Angela sang back, letting the subject drop— [for now.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KTlp91iSj5g)

**Author's Note:**

> So I have several overdue fics that need to be updated and I have never written or really ever been interested in A/B/O stories so naturally that’s why this weekend I feverishly churned through two chapters of this!
> 
> There’s no correlation between primary and secondary genders; there are male omegas and female alphas, agender/nb/demi etc and Angela is a trans woman. 
> 
> Leave a comment if you liked this because honestly I have no idea what I'm doing and need lots of positive reinforcement


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